


A Piece Of What You Need

by ruric



Category: Andromeda, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-01
Updated: 2009-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyr is a survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece Of What You Need

The smack of staffs across his knuckles and forearm numbs Tyr’s hand but he knows better than to drop a weapon. 

He tightens his grip, ducks and rolls under another blow and twists to the right, striking back. The solid thunk and the huff of exhaled breath causes Tyr’s lips to quirk into a smile that he knows doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

He straightens, dances back a few steps and waits for Ronon to close the distance.

He’s not disappointed. 

Ronon comes after him, soft footed and fast, twirling the staffs in each hand with an ease that belies the hours of practice needed to become so skilled. The staffs would never be Tyr’s weapons of choice, but there’s no way to spar with a gauss gun and it’s far too easy to cause accidental damage with a blade – especially when they’re still learning each other’s styles and tricks.

Another flurry of blows, the speed at which they’re working sheens their skin with sweat, and Tyr can smell Ronon. Enhanced Neitzschean senses count for something here on Atlantis. 

Tyr hears the staccato beat of Ronon’s heart, smells the rich musky scent and this...being matched against an opponent who is close to an equal is something Tyr misses. The joy of the fight has been bred into him, he can no more resist its call than he can stop breathing.

But there’s no tang of fear in Ronon’s scent, no irregularity in the heartbeat to suggest that he may think he’s in danger of losing.

There’s nothing in Ronon’s eyes or stance to telegraph his moves until one hand goes high for a head shot and the other cuts low, the wooden staff slamming hard into Tyr’s knee. Tyr’s growling as he shifts his weight compensating, his shoulder slamming into Ronon’s chest almost lifting him off his feet, pushing him back and away.

Tyr’s fist curls around the handle of the staff, he thumps it to his own chest his voice ringing loud.

"I am Tyr..."

But Ronon’s faster, closing with Tyr, one staff clattering to the floor, the other coming up under Tyr’s chin. The speed and the weight of Ronon’s charge carries them back, Tyr’s head and shoulders impacting hard with the wall.

"I know _who_ you are...Tyr Anasazi, out of Victoria by Barbarossa...last of the Kodiak."

Ronon’s breathing hard and fast, the weight of his body pressing Tyr into the wall. Tyr’s fighting for breath - the staff threatening to crush his throat. He could break free but to do so he’d have to hurt Ronon and he's reluctant to hurt a man who could be...an ally. 

Tyr’s chin tips a little higher as Ronon leans in closer, hips rolling into him and Tyr _wants_...wants what he can smell in Ronon’s sweat, what he can see in the dark eyes turned on him and feel in the whisper of heated breath against his cheek.

"What I want to know _what_ you are?"

So simple a question with so many possible answers.

Nietzschean, husband and father, the last adult male of his Pride – he’s driven by his genes and thousands of years of selective breeding.

Officer to a captain he would willingly have died for before he witnessed Dylan’s life being sucked from his body by the Wraith. Tyr wants...wants the fight for survival, wants to feel flesh shred under his hands, wants to see his enemies bleed and die. 

He wants a way back to Andromeda and a crew and a son he knows he’ll never see again. He wants his Captain back – he wants Dylan here pushing him to take decisions no sane Nietzschean would ever make. He wants to forget seeing Dylan die, he wants to forget the year spent running from the Wraith until the ‘Lanteans found him.

Tyr wants a home. He wants family – his son, the brotherhood of other Nietzscheans, the friendship offered by Dylan, the crazy altruism of Andromeda’s captain and her crew.

Ronon waits with the implacable immutability of the Alpha of a Pride for his answer.

"What am I?"

The clatter of the staffs dropping to the floor when Tyr lets them go doesn’t even make Ronon blink. Tyr’s hands close around Ronon’s wrists pushing the staff held at his throat down and away.

The incontrovertible truth of his position only needs to be spoken aloud.

"I am...alone."

The dark eyed gaze Ronon turns on him rejects the statement, as does the open-palmed hand held steady waiting for Tyr’s response.

"Only if you choose to be."


End file.
